


Yet Still We Hope

by fractalgeometry



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, During Canon, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Hugs, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, M/M, Other, POV Alternating, Post-Canon, Solitary Confinement, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29517294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractalgeometry/pseuds/fractalgeometry
Summary: Heaven and Hell want to do away with their traitors, take them off the map and out of the equation. But Heaven and Hell are also angry. And once they have the traitors, what's stopping them from dragging out the process a little? Nothing, that's what. And it will be so very satisfying.Crowley and Aziraphale don't think much of this plan. But no one asked them, did they?(Heaven and Hell, of course, can't imagine that their traitors might have any tricks up their sleeves. Crowley and Aziraphale, meanwhile, try very hard not to forget.)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 66
Kudos: 75
Collections: Hurt Aziraphale





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I woke up one morning to my brain going _hey. Hey. What if you wrote a fic where you made the traitor trials worse?_ And I said "no, that's too mean." And my brain said, _but then you can write lots of comfort at the end._ So here we are.
> 
> This is the first of what I expect will be three or four chapters. This is the sad one. It gets better. I'm excited to share.

The ceilings of Hell seem to almost brush Aziraphale’s head as he walks, hemmed in by demons, through the halls. He can’t tell if it’s only that he’s not used to being this tall, or if the ceilings truly are that low, or something else entirely. He doesn’t have time to analyze it, though, because he has to focus on keeping his feet even as his arms are grabbed, the jostling demons slamming against him as though _trying_ to knock him to the ground. 

He hopes they won’t drag things out. Each movement he makes, each word he says, he wonders if it was convincing, if this moment will be the one where they find him out, if this really will become the day he and Crowley die. It would be awfully easy to make the switch, after all. Plenty of hellfire down here.

Plenty of holy water Up There.

He wonders how Crowley is doing.

~

The floor of Heaven has a slight tingle to it as Crowley walks, flanked by angels, across the wide expanse. It’s nowhere near the pain of a church, which surprises him somewhat, but it’s definitely _there,_ and it’s definitely trying to make him unwelcome. Maybe it’s tolerable because he’s in Aziraphale’s body. He’s not keen on finding out for sure.

The sweeping halls are strangely empty as Crowley is marched through them. The angels don’t touch him, but something in their eyes tells him not to resist. Not, he thinks, because he _couldn’t_ try making a run for it. But here, now, he is Aziraphale, and it is clear that they are not expecting Aziraphale to run. They expect him to go where he is told, quietly, uncomplainingly, and Crowley can’t risk doing even one little thing that might make them question something.

Their lives depend on this.

He wonders how Aziraphale is doing.

~

There are too many of them. There is only one of him, and there are so many of them, and Aziraphale still can’t do anything that could possibly suggest he isn’t Crowley. 

He has never seen this many demons in one place, he thinks. He has limited experience with demons, with one obvious exception, and he’s slightly regretting that now. Not that he would have wanted to have much to do with most demons in the past, either. It’s only that being surrounded by a whole horde, all seemingly intent on making what they expect to be the end of his life as unpleasant as possible is rather worrying. 

He’s not even in the hallway anymore; they’ve pushed him off into a side room and started to circle him menacingly. He tries to think of what Crowley would do in such a situation. He wouldn’t show fear, for starters. He’d probably look around and say something flippant and clever, try to talk his way out of the situation. 

“Seems like a bit of a tight fit in here, doesn’t it?” he offers, trying to adopt the unconcerned tone he expects Crowley would use.

“Oh, not really,” one of the nearby demons says. “But if you think so...we could get some more space.”

Aziraphale has just enough time to think that even if that turns out to be true he isn’t going to like the method before someone punches him in the side. Hard. It _hurts._

He gasps slightly and tries not to stagger. It has to end quickly, he tells himself. He will get through this, and he will meet Crowley in the park, and everything will be all right. He just has to seem unperturbed enough that Hell will leave them alone, later.

Someone hits him again.

~

When he was first ushered into this blank, empty room off the hall they had been walking down, Crowley wondered if he was in for an interrogation. Now, several minutes later, he’s realizing it’s less of an interrogation than a long-winded monologue discussing all of Aziraphale’s faults, mistakes, and crimes, in the eyes of Heaven.

Or at least, in the eyes of Gabriel, who is delivering the monologue and, Crowley thinks, enjoying it far too much. He’s never liked Gabriel much, based off of the snatches of overheard conversations and the few things Aziraphale has said about the archangel, and with each new word that dislike grows, along with a knot of anger. 

“We knew you were soft, Aziraphale,” Gabriel is saying now, patronizingly calm. “But that you could forget yourself this much — standing beside a demon! — we’re saddened, we really are, but you know we can’t just let it stand. There are consequences for your actions, you know that.”

Crowley swallows the urge to point out that Gabriel himself was “standing beside a demon” at the same time as the instance he seems to be so disappointed in Aziraphale for. Instead he nods, because it seems like the kind of thing Gabriel is expecting him to do. 

“I’ll let you think this over,” Gabriel says, as though it’s a favor. “Maybe this time it will get through that exceedingly thick skull of yours.” He doesn’t sound particularly hopeful. 

Crowley says nothing. He’s beginning to think that if it really were Aziraphale here, he would know what was about to happen, but it’s Crowley, and _he_ definitely doesn’t.

“I’m sure all you need is some nice peace and quiet to get your head screwed back on straight,” Gabriel says with a fake smile that indicates he doesn’t _really_ think so, but he has to try this before he can do anything else.

Crowley inclines his head in his best approximation of Aziraphale’s “polite, noncommittal nod” and hopes that’s enough.

Gabriel strides out of the room, followed by the silent watcher angels. The door closes behind them.

The blank, empty room seems to get blanker and emptier. Crowley feels like he can’t quite see the walls anymore, or at least where they connect to the floor. It’s more disconcerting than he thinks it should be. He _just_ saw the angels leave, after all. 

Still, it’s very blank. 

Somewhat concerningly so, really.

~

Aziraphale thinks vaguely that this must be what being a pinball feels like. He’s still standing, but it’s less and less of his own volition and more and more because the demons surrounding him won’t let him fall to the ground. Not that he _wants_ to be on the ground, really. He expects that would be worse, in the end, and it definitely wouldn’t set the scene he and Crowley planned, the unhurtable, confident demon swaggering into Hell and out again, unharmed, but not for lack of trying. Still, he’s taken enough blows now that a part of him would very much like to stop expending energy in the leg department. He's gotten a few hits of his own in, at least, though his aim isn't what he'd like at the moment.

The fact that his hands are still cuffed in front of him, leaving him no tools to help with balance or catch himself on things, definitely makes it worse. He’s at least trying to block out the cruel words being snarled his way by those who can’t reach him at any given moment. Those he should be able to ignore. All of it, really, he should be able to ignore. It is only temporary. It must be. That is the plan, and Aziraphale has to remember that. 

He hits the wall for the first time and grabs at it automatically, pressing himself against it, giving him something to put at his back. He half-expects to be yanked away again, but instead hands press against his shoulders, pinning him to the wall. Someone kicks his shin, hard, just below the knee. Aziraphale bites his tongue and tries to look unbothered. 

He’s just considering closing his eyes in hopes of blocking out at least _one_ unpleasantness when there’s a shout from the doorway.

“You there! Get out of my way.”

Most of the demons stop in their tracks and fall back, if only just enough to make a path for the newcomer. Aziraphale hears someone murmur “Duke Hastur”, and decides not to close his eyes just yet after all. The name rings a bell, and not a good one. This is definitely one of the demons Crowley specifically warned him about.

“So,” Hastur says, just in front of Aziraphale now. “Here you are.”

Aziraphale tries to pull Crowley’s nonchalant grin back onto his face. “Hi,” he greets. “Great to see you again!”

“Oh, it won’t be, soon,” Hastur says. “Not great at all.”

~

Crowley expected that Heaven’s method of dealing with a wayward underling would be different than what he knew of Hell. The empty halls and silent escorts as he was marched up fed quite nicely into that expectation, even as the lecture from Gabriel made Crowley want to do something quite unangelic. 

The empty white room did not factor into his expectations, though he thinks perhaps it should have, in hindsight. Aziraphale doesn’t talk much about Heaven, just like Crowley doesn’t talk much about Hell, but there have been times when one of Aziraphale’s matter-of-fact comments about the most recent critique he received hinted at some “correction” or another. Crowley never pushed for details, but he wonders now if this experience might be a familiar one, if it actually were Aziraphale standing here. 

He doesn’t like how it’s making him feel, as though everything is too big and too small all at once. He wishes he had his sunglasses. He wishes the floor would stop tingling. He wishes they would just get the whole business over with so he can go home and check that Aziraphale is all right. 

Aziraphale, who is currently off on his own in Hell, wearing Crowley’s face, to protect Crowley. Crowley hopes that Hell, at least, will be efficient. Douse the traitor in holy water and be done with it. 

They won’t. He knows they won’t. If Heaven is bothering to spend this time making “Aziraphale” repent, Hell is going to be dragging their event out at least as long. It’s only that Crowley has all too good an idea of what that event is likely to entail, and no way of keeping it from happening without making everything worse. 

Aziraphale will be all right. Aziraphale is a strong, smart angel, and he will be all right. Crowley will be all right too. It will all end, and their plan will work, and they will be all right.

For the first time, he wonders if they were wrong about how Heaven and Hell are planning to punish their traitors.

The room is very blank.

~

Aziraphale is on the ground. Now that he’s there he’s rather wishing he were still standing up, but he doesn’t think his tormentors would take that very well. He tries _not_ to think about the fact that even if they would, his legs might not be willing to do that much work. He’s fairly certain that something in the corporation is broken, and he can’t focus enough to heal it. 

Not that he could heal it even if he could focus. Miracles don’t exactly come with a waving banner proclaiming who performed it, but this deep into Hell _someone_ would notice an angelic healing miracle. If that happened, he doubts it would take them long to figure out whose miracle it was. 

Hands grab his arm and twist it behind his back — again, he notes vaguely. His shoulder hurts, which is undoubtedly a bad sign. Hastur’s voice says something hoarse and intimidating just beside his ear. The demon clearly has a personal grudge against Crowley, which lines up with what Crowley told him, most of it hastily the night before, as they tried to make as foolproof a plan as they could think of. 

A plan which definitely didn’t involve Hell thinking that they could subdue Crowley. Will it matter if he survives when they finally decide to do away with him, if they know that a few well-placed hits will get him down? Aziraphale is fairly certain it won’t. He has to do something.

He rolls and kicks, taking someone’s legs out from under them and freeing himself enough to sit up. He props a hand behind him to keep from being pushed back down immediately, noting vaguely that his elbow hurts, and says, “Okay, have you all had your fun yet?”

Hastur hits him across the face, and Aziraphale nearly goes down again. He lets his arm bend a little, trying to absorb the force of the hit, and manages not to make the pained sound that is trying to escape his throat. 

“Not yet,” Hastur says, still in that terrible hoarse growl. “I have some more fun planned yet.”

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale says, trying to project ‘nonchalant disinterest’. 

Someone pulls his bracing arm from behind him. Bother. He really should have kept more of an eye on his back.

~

Crowley paces. He tried not to, at first, fairly certain from long years listening to Aziraphale explaining and rationalizing things from his visits to Heaven that he would be expected to stay still. That _Aziraphale,_ in this situation, would be expected to stay still. Waiting. Patient even in the face of terrible treatment.

He couldn’t keep it up. He’s angry at himself for it, but the place is too empty, too blank, too _nothing_ for him to properly play the part of the patient angel who has nothing better to do than stand alone all day. 

He stops moving when he notices, tries to settle into that body language he’s seen Aziraphale do on occasion: unprovocative, attentive, obedient. He can’t jeopardize the chances of their plan working, can’t jeopardize Aziraphale and himself, not with everything that’s on the line now. He can keep it together, for that. He can do whatever he has to to keep up the appearance that they need to be projecting right now. So he stops moving, and he stands, quietly, clasping his hands together and trying to focus on anything but the unnatural stillness, the way the fingers he’s holding together are the _wrong_ fingers, because this body isn’t his, it’s Aziraphale’s, and he has to keep it safe so that he can bring it back to Aziraphale. So that _he_ can get back to Aziraphale. 

He notices that his feet are moving again late, too late, long after they’ve carried him back and forth across the room a second time, a third, a fourth. It’s disconcerting, the way he can forget what he’s doing, forget why he was standing there. He stops walking again, stands still, tries to settle into the position. Reminds himself why he’s holding it. Reminds himself again. 

His thoughts slip away, not to something else, not to daydreams or anger or worries, only _away,_ as though he can’t have thoughts, they’ve been swallowed up along with everything else that might be in this room. The blankness encompassed them and pulled them away, and without the thoughts his feet start pacing again, unwilling to stay still, as though he might forget how to move if he doesn’t.

He stops.

He starts again.

The emptiness stretches around him.

~

Aziraphale is through with this whole escapade. At first he was willing to go along with things, to keep up appearances, bide his time until the big moment, but this is taking too long, and he is out of patience. 

He also thinks that it might go on indefinitely if he lets it, and he isn’t sure he’ll be able to keep up an unbothered mask if that happens. That mask has already slipped some, he knows, and he can only pray that it hasn’t gone so far that someone might find him out. 

He analyzes his options. Too many aggressive bodies above him to successfully stand up. The door isn’t so very far away, though, and even without his hands he should be able to get there. 

He doesn’t think about the fact that there’s no reason that getting to the door would mean he got out of this. It is a goal, and he needs a goal right now. He wiggles along the floor in the direction of that goal, because it’s his best plan at the moment. 

Someone sneers above him, “Finally remembered you’re a snake, huh? A stupid, helpless snake.”

There’s a kick aimed at his side, but he hardly notices. Too many blows have gone by now for any individual one to be notable. He ignores the jab — both the verbal and the physical — and continues moving. 

No one stops him, but laughter breaks out. He ignores that too.

His head pokes out into the hallway. It’s crowded, but not with a focused mob. Just an everyday crush of demons moving around. 

Someone grabs his ankle and pulls him back. “Where do you think you’re going, traitor?”

Aziraphale bites the inside of his lip as the rough floor drags across his side. “Thought I’d get some fresh air,” he says. “This whole thing is awfully boring.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. He knows it is as soon as the words leave his mouth, but it was the first thing he thought of that seemed even possibly like it would bolster his indifferent image. He hopes vaguely that it worked, as he’s pummeled and sworn at and generally reduced to a miserable ball on the floor. 

Internally miserable, he reminds himself. Outwardly bored. 

He thinks it’s working.

~

There is nothing. There is _nothing,_ and he is alone, and Aziraphale is in Hell, and they were wrong. They aren’t to be executed after all. They are to be kept away from Earth, and away from each other, being shown the error of their ways. 

He’s not going to be convinced, no, never, especially not by Heaven’s kind of ‘correction’. Any thoughts he’s managing to have on his confinement are on the topic of how angry he is that this is a thing, especially a thing Aziraphale might be used to. No, it isn’t working on him.

Even if it doesn’t work, it doesn’t change the fact that he is trapped. He is trapped, and if he stays trapped, Heaven will know they can trap him — can trap Aziraphale. He is trapped, and if he stays trapped, they will never be safe. 

The room is blank around him.

~

Aziraphale is on his feet. He isn’t sure how he got there, or how he’s staying up, but he is up, and he will stay there. 

They called for him, that’s what happened. There was an echoing sound of a voice calling for “the traitor”, and then he was hauled to his feet. He is standing on his own now, despite the aching in his corporation. 

“Well,” one of the demons grunts. “It’s time to go.”

“Oh, well then,” Aziraphale says. His face hurts. “Lovely getting to spend time with you all.”

“Smartass,” someone else says.

“Get _in_ here!” someone yells from down the hall, and they move off. Aziraphale finds that if he focuses on taking each step as it comes, the whole thing doesn’t seem so hard after all. Just a little while longer, and then he can leave.

~

Everything is blank. Everything is blank, and there is nothing there, and Crowley is never getting out of here. He’s doomed Aziraphale to a life in Hell with one little mistake, and there’s nothing he can do to change it. 

A faint voice in the back of his mind keeps reminding him to act like Aziraphale, suggesting movements, poses, little idiosyncrasies learned from endless years of watching his angel. He listens to it for some reason, lets it keep up that optimism that maybe their plan will still work. 

He listens, and he stands still, surrounded by nothing.

~

Aziraphale is shoved to the ground in front of a dais. Hastur is standing there, and another demon, each to one side of a throne that holds a third demon. Lord Beelzebub, Aziraphale remembers. This is probably where he should show at least a _little_ respect, Crowley not being a fool. He doesn’t think, however, that said respect has to go as far as remaining on his knees before the dais where he was pushed. They have not broken him. They have not won. He has to make sure they see it that way, when he survives their execution.

He pushes himself backwards and stands, biting the inside of his lip against the pain that shoots up from his right ankle. No one stops him getting up, so he settles his weight as unobtrusively as possible on his left leg and lets his arms hang nonchalantly by his sides. Better that way. He doesn’t have to worry about hitting a painful spot. 

He can feel the disdain rolling off of the demons around him, still angry at being robbed of their war. He partially tunes out the recitation of Crowley’s perceived crimes, allowing himself to use this moment of stillness to let his mind wander a little, beyond the immediate worries that have been encompassing his thoughts since he arrived in Hell and off to other worries, like Crowley. Crowley, who is hopefully even now waiting for him on Earth, waiting for this ordeal to be over.

He does not think about the possibility that Heaven is doing something to draw out the experience, not because it doesn’t occur to him, but because he refuses to contemplate it. Even if Heaven has determined that the only sufficient correction for an angel is execution, they must make it merciful and quick. Crowley is certainly sitting comfortably somewhere on Earth, and soon Aziraphale will join him, and all will be well.

Aziraphale tells himself this, and studiously does not think of white walls or a space where everything goes hazy, even when you try to keep your wits.

~

He can pace. He can stand still. He could scream and yell, but he has not forgotten himself so much for that.

He cannot escape.

It is very blank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> Leave a comment if you have anything to say! I look forward to hearing people's thoughts.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things begin looking up. They've been through enough.

The holy water is soothing on Aziraphale’s skin. He thinks there’s a metaphor there somewhere, a poetic description of how the very thing meant to kill instead turns into a kindness, but he can’t lose himself deep enough in words to think of it. He can relax slightly, thank goodness; relaxation now furthers his goal instead of detracting from it, but he is still an angel, in Hell, wearing the face of a demon they are trying to do away with. He is so far from “safe” that it’s almost laughable. 

He flicks more water at the window separating him from the hordes of Hell. They yell and scramble back and forth. The demons in the room with him have drawn back, looking as though they have no idea what to do next. Good.

He doesn’t intend to hurt any of them. It’s not that he’s entirely averse to the idea; he may prefer to do things peacefully, but he has many reasons to be displeased with this particular group. Today, though, he is here to frighten, not enrage. He only has to get out of Hell in one piece.

He takes a moment to scan the corporation, identify what is going to give him the most difficulty when it comes to leaving confidently. He might be able to get away with a small healing miracle, he thinks, surrounded by holiness as he is. It’s a risk, but it could be a risk worth taking if it means he can walk properly instead of limping away.

He spatters a few more drops of water around him and lets a tiny bit of power flow around his ankle, settling some of the internal joints back where they should be. That done, he rests his arm on the edge of the tub, glaring lazily around, scanning for any hint that someone noticed what he did. 

They are still hanging back, eyes wide, muttering under their breaths to each other. There doesn’t seem to be any change from before he healed his ankle. Good. He stretches, wondering when he should call it a day and get out of the water.

His answer comes when Michael returns.

~

The door opens. 

Crowley turns toward it, scrambling through the dust of his thoughts, trying to find the plan that faded from the front of his mind over the past hours. Days? He doesn’t know. Why is the door opening? 

Gabriel enters. Crowley is very certain that he does not want to see Gabriel. 

Gabriel smiles. Crowley hates that smile. 

“How’s that pondering going?” Gabriel asks. 

Crowley hasn’t done any pondering for quite a long time, he thinks. “Quite well,” he says. Words seem to be coming slowly. It’s disorienting.

“Hm,” Gabriel says.

There is silence. Crowley wonders what Gabriel is waiting for. Probably an apology. Maybe he wants Aziraphale to beg forgiveness.

Crowley isn’t going to do either of those things. He thinks that’s his best move here. He notices, vaguely, that he’s thinking about things like “best moves” again. That’s probably a good sign.

Gabriel stares at him.

Crowley stares back, bringing his hands up to clasp over his stomach.

“Well, let’s go, then,” Gabriel says.

He leaves.

The door stays open.

Crowley finally lets his feet move, carrying him toward that open space in the empty wall. Some automatic alert that he didn’t realize he switched on until now yells at him to  _ stop, Aziraphale would be still, he can’t risk it, he has to stop. _

He overrides it.

He walks out the door.

~

Aziraphale gets his towel. He thinks that the look on Michael’s face when she gives it to him nearly makes the whole ordeal worth it. 

Then he feels ashamed of thinking a thought so unbecoming for an angel. 

Then he thinks of all the things that have happened over the last week and decides that an extra uncharitable thought might not make so much of a difference anyway.

He dries himself off, trying not to let his movements betray his eagerness to leave. Let them think he’s enjoying himself, watching them try not to cower away from his every move. He throws in a few more subtly threatening comments just to reinforce the idea.

His ankle twinges when he walks, but Aziraphale has experienced pain before, and he ignores it. The demons he passes shrink back from him in a stark contrast to the way they jostled and hit when he first arrived. It seems that news travels fast. Aziraphale is grateful for it.

~

Crowley can’t decide if the halls of Heaven are more or less disorienting after the blank room. They seem very  _ large, _ but the existence of detail — even faint detail — in the lighting and the patterns is a welcome sight. 

He would like to be annoyed at the brusque way he’s told to “sit down”, but he can only feel relief at the way the chair feels mostly solid under him, the way the arms press against his sides in contrast to the open air that surrounded him for so long.

They still haven’t touched him. It’s strange to be surrounded by people who are angry at him, wish him harm, even, but won’t touch him. He knows, theoretically, that this sort of thing is used as a punishment sometimes. He’s never had it used on him.

He didn’t think it would  _ work _ on him.

They hardly even touch him when they bind his wrists to the chair, as though  _ now _ he has to be kept in place. The ties are flimsy, almost insultingly so, until he realizes that they aren’t what’s supposed to be keeping “Aziraphale” in place. Only more expectations, expectations piled on top of expectations, keeping everyone Up Here in line. 

He tries not to crane his neck to take in the sweeping ceiling, sink into the fact that he can  _ see _ the ceiling. They haven’t got to him. He has to make it abundantly clear that they haven’t got to him. 

He wonders if he’s in for another lecture, then wonders how he’ll get through it without saying something incredibly rude to Gabriel’s face. He has to restrain the urge. Now, out here, where reality seems almost as though it might really exist, he remembers that he has to act like Aziraphale. And even Aziraphale at his angriest would never say any of the things that had crossed Crowley’s mind earlier. Not to someone’s face, anyway.

He sits up a little straighter as a memory of Aziraphale’s face — the face Crowley is wearing right now — dances through his mind. He gives the angels a small, tight smile. He is fine. He can do this.

He isn’t sure that he has ever felt this far from fine.

~

The fresh air of Earth hits Aziraphale hard, and he breathes it in deeply, wondering for the first time how long he was gone. He hasn’t had time to think of much beyond the immediate concern of personal safety and the more abstract but ever-present concern of Crowley’s safety.

Crowley. Crowley, who he is supposed to meet in the park as soon as possible. He’ll go there, then. 

He quickly realizes that he’s going to have to deal with more of the injuries if he wants this walk to be at all quick. Besides, he’ll have to give the corporation back to Crowley soon, and he can’t do that if it’s all beat up. It wouldn’t be polite. Or kind.

He wants very much to be kind to Crowley.

So Aziraphale stops, and he leans against the wall of the nearest building, and he goes over his body and heals the worst of the bruises and scrapes and twists and, yes, at least one fracture. Then he does it again, trying to find anything he might have missed. 

It feels good to have the pain gone. Hints of it linger, but that’s par for the course with healing miracles, and he can tell that the injuries themselves are gone. The pain is only in his memory, then, and that won’t transfer back over to Crowley. 

He pushes away from the wall and the world spins.

He rests a hand back on the wall and tries to make it stop. Wonders, briefly, if he shouldn’t have done that many miracles in a short timeframe, given recent events.

But no, they were necessary. He only needs a moment.

He closes his eyes.

He takes a moment.

He takes another moment. 

The ground slowly becomes steady under his feet again.

Finally he stands up more completely and begins again to walk towards his meeting point with Crowley. The place where it will all be over and he can perhaps finally believe it truly worked.

He arrives at the designated bench.

Crowley is not there.

~

The hellfire is warm. It curls and crackles around Crowley, the heat soaking into him a welcome change from the perfectly unremarkable temperature of Heaven. He notices that the floor where the fire is isn’t tingling under him. It’s fascinating to  _ feel _ something. 

Then he remembers that this is supposed to be Aziraphale, this is supposed to  _ kill _ Aziraphale, and he tenses again. Somehow, against all odds, their plan seems to be back on the rails, and he can’t mess up now. Even if his mind seems to want to take some nice long breaks in between every thought. 

The look on the archangels’ faces when he blows fire at them is the most beautiful thing in Heaven.

~

Aziraphale circles the park, in case he misremembered the meeting spot. 

He circles the park again, in case he missed Crowley somewhere.

He circles the park one more time, because he can’t bring himself to admit that Crowley isn’t there.

Finally he sits down. He’s abruptly glad of Crowley’s propensity to slouch, and does so with some abandon, trying not to let his thoughts go down unhelpful paths. It will all be fine. Perhaps there was some paperwork to do, and Crowley got bogged down in details.

Perhaps Heaven decided they couldn’t execute one of their own, and Crowley is imprisoned until they think “Aziraphale” seems properly repentant.

Aziraphale tries not to think of that last idea.

Many humans walk past.

Crowley is not among them.

~

Crowley does not stumble as he walks out of Heaven. If the floor seems a little too hypothetical under his feet, well, it’s probably just because he’s used to Earth. 

Earth, which is busy, and loud, and so very reassuring. It makes him feel like maybe it actually did work, he escaped the blank room, and he escaped Heaven, and he might have life ahead of him after all. He might see Aziraphale again.

Aziraphale. He’s supposed to meet Aziraphale. 

He has to get to Berkeley Square.

~

Aziraphale tries to stay seated when he sees Crowley approaching, tries to play it cool, reminds himself that they are in a public place, but somehow he’s on his feet by the time Crowley reaches him. He stretches out a hand, and Crowley brushes his own against it on the way past, dropping onto the bench with more intent than grace. Aziraphale settles at the other end and eyes Crowley. It’s strange to see his own corporation from the outside, though Crowley seems to have decided to drop the projection of  _ being _ Aziraphale, and the body language is fully Crowley. It makes it, somehow, less strange. 

“How are you?” he asks.

Crowley stares out across the park. “Fine.”

He doesn’t, Aziraphale thinks, look fine. Then he thinks about his own answer to that question, and the truthfulness of the words that would probably come out of his mouth, and decides that Crowley is most likely as fine as Aziraphale. 

“How are  _ you?” _ Crowley asks.

“Perfectly all right, don’t worry,” Aziraphale replies automatically. 

Crowley narrows his eyes, and Aziraphale hastily adds, “Worked like a charm, really, the looks on their faces, you ought to have seen it!”

Crowley seems pacified by this, or at least sufficiently distracted. He smiles — a weak smile, Aziraphale thinks, or perhaps he just isn’t used to seeing his own smile from the outside — and says, “Up There, too. Terrified, the lot of them.”

“I asked for a rubber duck,” Aziraphale says, and feels a smile take over his own face. “I made the Archangel Michael miracle me a towel!”

At that they both dissolve into laughter. Aziraphale has just enough time to think,  _ see, everything is fine, we made it, _ before the laughter takes on a bit of a hysterical edge as the relief truly hits. He manages to stop it before it turns to something even more undignified, like sobs, and takes a deep breath. Looks at Crowley, who seems to be doing something similar on the other end of the bench.

There are several moments of silence. Then Crowley says, “Well. Swap back, then?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says instantly, then scans through the body he’s wearing for any lingering injuries he might have missed. Heals a bruise. “As long as no one is watching.”

“Nope,” Crowley says, and holds out his hand.

Aziraphale takes it.

~

Crowley sighs deeply as he settles back into his own corporation, flops his long limbs over the bench, feels the familiar press of sunglasses on his head. He would like to continue hanging onto Aziraphale’s hand, but isn’t quite brave enough at the moment. Still, without that point of contact he’s back to feeling a little unsure of the reality of the world, and he would quite like that to go away. He clenches his hand into a fist and scans the park. 

Well, he’s sitting down. That’s a good sign. He can feel wind, he can see trees. He can see lots of things, actually, which is a major point in favor of reality. If he hadn’t escaped, he would still just be seeing nothing.

Probably.

He looks over at Aziraphale, who’s watching him with a slightly concerned expression. That’s not a good sign. 

“I’m fine,” Crowley says.

“I never said you weren’t,” Aziraphale points out.

“Yeah, well.” Crowley isn’t sure where to go from there, so he changes the subject. “Want to go get lunch? Dinner? What time is it, anyway?”

“Sometime in the afternoon, I think.” Aziraphale looks at the sky. “I haven’t checked.”

Something about his tone speaks of more than forgetfulness. Crowley eyes him and sees his own tension reflected there. 

“I feel that I might not be the best company for lunch,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley nods. “We could go to the shop.” The bookshop, that is somehow still standing, even after it burned, after Crowley saw it burn,  _ felt _ it burn-

Aziraphale looks relieved. “Yes, let’s do that for today.”

They stand up in tandem, walk out of the park side by side.

Partway through the walk, Aziraphale’s hand slips into Crowley’s. Or maybe it’s the other way around. It doesn’t matter.

What matters is the quiet desperation in the touch, the way neither of them let go. The way they both look straight ahead as they walk, while between them, unspoken yet mutually welcomed, their fingers weave together and hold on.

Tightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, as always, are a joy to read and very welcome. <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely love this chapter, and I'm very excited to share.

Crowley lets go when they cross the threshold and power-walks across the shop proper to disappear into the back room. Aziraphale follows him nearly as quickly, eyes scanning the shop for any kind of damage. 

There is none. He might think the fire Crowley told him about never happened but for the uncommon neatness of everything. 

Crowley is already sitting on the sofa, one end cushion tucked under his arm as though he’d like to be hugging it but hasn’t forgotten himself quite  _ that _ much. Aziraphale’s conviction that Heaven did something unpleasant grows. He sits down on the other end of the sofa.

“I didn’t get all the way back here,” Crowley says. He’s staring straight ahead.

“When?”

“When you were gone. Yesterday.” Crowley pauses, looks around for the first time. “Was it yesterday? Saturday, whenever that was.”

“I haven’t checked,” Aziraphale says. Didn’t really want to find out how long they were gone. Didn’t want to think about what might have been happening to Crowley, in that time. It is selfish of him, but sometimes Aziraphale truly is a very weak angel.

Crowley’s words replay in his head.  _ When you were gone. _ “You really did come in here?” he asks.

Crowley nods.

“When it was...on fire.”

Crowley nods again.

“And you’re okay with being here now?” Aziraphale presses, needing to know, needing to check.

“Yeah, s’okay,” Crowley says, and he sounds serious. “Like I said, wasn’t back here then. And you’re here now. The shop isn’t the problem.”

Aziraphale wonders if Crowley noticed that he essentially just admitted there  _ is _ a problem. He decides not to press it. Another cowardly move.

“I think I’ll make some tea,” he says instead, and moves toward the kettle. Crowley doesn’t say anything, but his eyes track Aziraphale, and his arm clutches the cushion.

Aziraphale ignores the way his right wrist seems intent on making him think there’s something wrong with it as he lifts the heavy kettle. There isn’t anything wrong. He knows. This corporation didn’t experience that injury,  _ and _ he healed the other one. It’s only the memory that won’t quite leave him.

~

It occurs to Crowley, as he watches Aziraphale go through the motions of making tea without any of his usual calm, that they still haven’t checked what day it is. He’s feeling less and less like he wants to know the answer. 

Maybe it’s still Sunday. It could be Sunday, and then they were only gone for a few hours, and everything is fine.

He runs his fingers over a ratty spot on the cushion, feeling the texture drag against his skin. It’s calming. Grounding. He made it out. Aziraphale made it out. Their plan worked after all. 

He keeps his eyes on Aziraphale, the sight reassuring, reminding him of that fact over and over. He can believe it, he thinks. If he stays here long enough, on Earth, with Aziraphale, he can believe it. 

Aziraphale pours the water and comes back to the sofa, setting the teapot and two cups on the side table and sitting back down. He folds his hands in his lap, looking terribly ill at ease. Crowley breathes in the scent of the brewing tea. There wasn’t anything to smell Up There, either, he realizes. Only a whole lot of nothing. 

“We made it,” Aziraphale says.

“We did,” Crowley says. Saying it out loud makes it seem more real. 

“Our plan worked,” Aziraphale says. “Thank goodness for Agnes.”

“Mm,” Crowley agrees. He leans back, stretching his arms above his head. His left shoulder twinges suddenly, the sharp pain of a recent injury. He drops his arms again quickly and frowns. He didn’t hurt his shoulder during Armageddon, he’s fairly certain. Which means something must have happened while Aziraphale had his body.

“What did they do to you?” he asks, and rubs the shoulder. Damn it, that hurt.

Aziraphale’s eyes are a little wide. “Nothing, really, just a little- did I miss something?”

“Miss something when?” Crowley asks.

“When I was healing…” Aziraphale slumps a little. “I didn’t want you to be in pain when we switched back. I  _ am _ sorry, dear.”

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asks carefully, and reaches out a hand. “What. Did they do to you?” He knows, of course. He’s no fool, and while he’s managed to avoid most chances to be the source of entertainment for a mob of bored demons, he’s no stranger to it either. He just has to hear it.

He doesn’t want to hear it.

“Just a few punches,” Aziraphale says — lies, they both know it, but Crowley won’t call him on it. “I believe they wanted to make me- you- sorry. Before they-” he cuts off. “You know.”

“I’m sorry,” Crowley says. “Angel, I never wanted you to- I thought they might just- I thought it would be quicker.”

“So did I.” The shadows chasing each other across Aziraphale’s face are enough to break what heart Crowley has.

There’s a silence.

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand and pulls invitingly. Crowley relinquishes his cushion and moves across the sofa to lean against Aziraphale. Aziraphale puts an arm around him and, after a moment, rests his forehead on Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley presses himself closer, not sure which one of them he’s trying harder to comfort. He hates that Aziraphale had to deal with Hell, hates the sore shoulder that reminds him of it, hates that he doesn’t know what other injuries Aziraphale might have healed before Crowley got back, and if this is helping Aziraphale, then he will sit here forever.

At the same time, Aziraphale’s arm around him is comfortingly heavy, and Aziraphale’s breath on his shoulder is so real and reassuring that Crowley thinks he might sit here forever for purely selfish reasons, even if it weren’t helping Aziraphale at all.

Clearly, he decides, he has many reasons not to move. 

~

Aziraphale stays still for what feels like a long time, breathing slowly and feeling the soft, loving, safe touch of Crowley’s hand on his leg, Crowley’s body against his side. No sudden movements, no pain. Only the two of them. 

He notices the way Crowley is tucking himself closer, as though the touch is helping him too. It almost certainly is. Aziraphale doubts he and Crowley had the same experience before their trials, but he has all too good a guess as to what happened instead. No painful touch, no. No angry voices. 

But no touch. No voices.

He has to know.

He raises his head and sits back, not moving away from Crowley. “Crowley?” he asks. “What did they do to  _ you?” _

Crowley inhales sharply. His fingers clutch at Aziraphale’s. “Nothing,” he says. He looks at Aziraphale’s face and deflates a little. “Really nothing, I’m actually not deflecting here, I just-”

Aziraphale tightens his hold, remembering how he’s longed for that kind of touch on past occasions, hoping it will help Crowley now. “I know,” he says, and if his voice is a little too honest, well, he’s been through rather a lot recently. “I believe you.”

Crowley turns his head to bury his face in Aziraphale’s arm. “I don’t want you to know,” he says quietly. “I hoped you wouldn’t.” 

“And I hoped  _ you _ wouldn’t,” Aziraphale says. “You don’t deserve that.”

“And you do?” Crowley demands.

Aziraphale bites his tongue against the  _ I suppose I must _ that wants to escape, because he doesn’t know anymore, and he can’t think about that right now. But he can’t quite say  _ no _ either.

Crowley lifts his head, moves so he can rest his forehead on Aziraphale’s cheek. “You don’t,” he says, the words a well-worn path along here, reminiscent of countless other conversations about Aziraphale and Heaven. He doesn’t sound accusatory, or annoyed. He’s just reminding Aziraphale. Again. “You never did deserve it. I’m glad I was in your place this time, so I can know just what I should be mad at them for.”

“Crowley, no,” Aziraphale pleads. “You shouldn’t have ever had to- I’m used to it, at least, I-”

“You shouldn’t _ have _ to be used to it,” Crowley snaps. “Just like you shouldn’t have had to get beat up by a bunch of demons and I shouldn’t be used to  _ that.” _ He pulls halfway out of Aziraphale’s arms. “None of what just happened was okay, and it wouldn’t have been okay if we hadn’t swapped — would have been a lot worse, actually, and I don’t like  _ that _ one bit — and I can’t handle you trying to justify it. They tried to kill us, Aziraphale.  _ And _ they tried to break us, and they got a lot closer than I’d like. So just...don’t.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes against the tears that want to start. Crowley’s words ring of truth, filled with pain and exhaustion and desperation, and that truth scrapes against Aziraphale like a particularly rough washcloth, not unwanted, but not comfortable.

_ They got a lot closer than I’d like _ runs through his mind again. Crowley isn’t just talking about Aziraphale there. This isn’t one of those times when Crowley is just mad at Aziraphale for denying things. Crowley is tired, and Crowley is hurt, and Aziraphale is tired, and he supposes he might be hurt somehow too, and-

_ Our own side, _ they said. They’re all they have, now.

A part of Aziraphale’s mind reminds him of all the times they’ve taken care of each other over the years, even when they were pretending not to, and murmurs,  _ you’ve been on your own side for a long time now. _

Aziraphale dismisses it as yet another thing he can’t think about right now. Then he opens his eyes and looks at Crowley, who is still sitting just beside him, watching with a warily resigned expression that Aziraphale recognizes from past moments when Crowley has pushed too hard and Aziraphale pushed him away. 

Aziraphale opens his arms again. “Would you like another hug?” he asks. “I’ve always wanted one, before. I think that touch helps.”

Crowley closes the distance between them and collapses against Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale wraps his arms around Crowley and holds on, feeling the firm, reassuring warmth of his friend like the antidote to everything that happened recently. They’re safe. They’re in the bookshop, both of them, and they never have to leave again if they don’t want to.

His heart hurts for Crowley. Aziraphale should have warned him. Should have guessed that Heaven might do more than push him into hellfire, should have explained better about their preferred method of correction. At the same time, a shiver goes down Aziraphale’s spine at the mere thought of it. He tries not to think about it, usually. It’s better that way.

Crowley’s shoulders shake in what looks like a sob. Aziraphale tries to hold him closer, tries to give the comfort he couldn’t before. He hopes it’s working, as Crowley shakes again, face buried in Aziraphale’s arm.

~

Aziraphale is holding him. Aziraphale is holding him as though he deserves it, as though he’s precious, as though he’s worthy. As though he isn’t stupid for spending so long curled up here, sniffling and shaking like an idiot. 

He should check on Aziraphale. He should uncurl and sit up and help Aziraphale, who had to deal with Hell alone, and definitely deserves to be cared for. But Aziraphale is still holding him, and that place was  _ awful, _ and Crowley can’t quite bring himself to move out of the warm, grounding embrace. 

He realizes that he’ll probably have plenty of new nightmare fuel for a while now.

Stupid, letting himself be so bothered by an empty room.

He still can’t sit up and pretend he’s fine. 

Aziraphale rests his cheek on Crowley’s hair. Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s nose brushing the top of his head. 

They stay like that for a while.

Finally Crowley shifts, just enough that Aziraphale lifts his head and sits back a little. Crowley sits up in turn, and Aziraphale’s grip loosens. He still doesn’t let go entirely, which Crowley finds himself grateful for. Aziraphale looks calmer now too, but his eyes are a little too bright, and there’s a brittleness around the edges of the calm.

“Okay,” Crowley says, and weaves their limbs around each other until he can hold out his own arms. “My turn.”

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale asks. “I don’t-”

“My turn,” Crowley repeats. “As long as you don’t ask me to go away.”  _ Please not that, anything but that, I’m still working on reality here… _

Aziraphale pulls his arms close to his chest and almost dives into Crowley’s arms. Crowley closes them and oh, he loves being held by his angel, always will, it was exactly what he needed just now, but there’s something related but so very different about being allowed to  _ hold _ his angel, being trusted to come this close, trusted to give comfort, to protect, to safeguard. He gathers Aziraphale close and holds on, trying to pour every ounce of comfort he can find into the hug, and only feeling the tiniest twinge of guilt over the comfort he himself is getting from it.

Some fifteen minutes pass before he notices that now  _ Aziraphale _ is the one crying, quiet, almost imperceptible tears, the faintest tremor of the shoulders. What does it say about them, Crowley wonders, that even after nearly losing everything, being tortured — because it was, that was what both Heaven and Hell were going for, whether or not the idiots Up in their fancy white halls would admit it — and nearly dying, they both cried so quietly that you might miss it if you were sitting just across the room? Probably says that they’re both royally screwed up in the head, not that that’s news.

He sighs.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says hoarsely.

“Don’t,” Crowley says. “Wasn’t at you.”

“This is foolish,” Aziraphale says morosely. “I’m not even injured anymore.”

Crowley would like to say something about the  _ anymore _ part of that, but he decides to start with, “You don’t have to have a broken arm to still be upset about getting beat up.”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale says. He doesn’t sound convinced.

Crowley wants to convince him, but the only way he can think of to do that involves dredging up some memories that he thinks are probably better left ignored for now. He’s still feeling a little too close to the edge of a breakdown.

So he only says, “I’m right, damn it,” and smiles when Aziraphale laughs through the end of his tears.

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything more, but he doesn’t pull away like Crowley is half-expecting, either. Eventually they move, together, settling more comfortably along the sofa. Aziraphale reclines against the arm, and Crowley settles half on top of, half next to him, wedged between Aziraphale and the back of the sofa. The sun is going down, and the shop is dim. Crowley keeps his eyes open, though, not sure he wants to know what he’ll see if he closes them.

The shapes of the bookshop surround him, safe and real and comforting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting better. I would love to hear what you think of this chapter, and either way, thank you for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter! I don't consider it the end of the story, though. More like we're seeing a glimpse of the path they'll take as they grow and learn and heal over the next...many years, probably, given how immortal they are. It's the end of this fic, and it shapes their story. Enjoy.

Aziraphale isn’t certain how they got here, lying on the sofa in the bookshop together, any pretense of distance abandoned long ago. He does know that he doesn’t want to disturb it. There’s something grounding about the stillness, the quiet, the proximity to Crowley. It’s not like anything else, and right now Aziraphale needs that uniqueness. 

Crowley’s arm is thrown across Aziraphale’s middle, and his head is on Aziraphale’s shoulder, hair tickling Aziraphale’s nose. Aziraphale closes his eyes and nudges his face against the spiky strands. 

Crowley doesn’t move, but Aziraphale doesn’t think he’s sleeping. There’s a desperation in Crowley’s movements tonight, a willingness to be close that transcends their usual dance. One that Aziraphale sees mirrored in his own movements. It’s as though something in recent days was the last straw for their carefully-kept routines. Maybe it was the way their plan seemed to be crumbling around them for a little too long. They haven’t talked about it, but Aziraphale thinks he isn’t the only one who had doubts, earlier. 

“Hey, Aziraphale?” Crowley says.

“Yes?”

“Did we actually just survive Armageddon?”

Aziraphale stares up at the ceiling through the nighttime dimness. Contemplates turning on a light. Decides not to expend the effort. “I rather think we did.”

“I don’t think I’d really thought of it that way before,” Crowley muses. “It’s not the kind of thing you expect to happen.”

“No,” Aziraphale agrees. “It isn’t.”

Crowley raises his voice. “Hey SirLexa! What’s the day today?”

A computerized voice answers,  _ “It’s Wednesday, August 26, at one thirty-eight.” _

“Wednesday,” Crowley says.

“We got back here on Tuesday, then,” Aziraphale points out. 

“Could have been worse.”

“It could have been much worse.”

There’s a long silence. The sound of cars filters in from outside.

“It could have been better, too,” Aziraphale says finally.

Crowley nods against his shoulder.

They don’t move again until sunlight pokes its way through the door.

~

A tentative normality returns with the coming of morning. It’s harder to hide the fact that you’re clinging in daylight. When the sun reaches their faces, Crowley disentangles himself and sits up, sprawling back at his usual end. Aziraphale rights himself, adjusting his bow tie and smoothing out his vest, and they sit there, slightly awkwardly. 

Finally Aziraphale says, “I think I’ll take a look around the shop,” and stands up.

“You do that,” Crowley says, pressing his back a little further into the firm softness of the sofa cushions. “I’ll just...be a nuisance over here.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. “Yes. Jolly good, then.” He bustles out.

Crowley stays where he is for exactly eight minutes and fifty-six seconds before the feeling of unsettledness grows too large. He can hear Aziraphale moving around the shop, but he decides that he would like to  _ see _ Aziraphale moving around the shop for a while.

Aziraphale is perusing a shelf, frowning slightly. “I shall have to do a complete re-inventory,” he says as Crowley approaches. “There are several volumes that I am quite sure weren’t here before, and they appear to be scattered throughout the shop at random.” He sounds pleased about this fact.

“Going to have to go through book-by-book, then?” Crowley asks. 

“I do believe so.” Aziraphale straightens up and smiles at him. The smile is a little too small, not the beaming happiness that would normally accompany a discovery of this sort, but it’s there, and it’s genuine. Crowley feels his own expression soften in response.

Neither of them mention the way Crowley trails Aziraphale through the shelves for the rest of the day, leaning against the wall here, perching on a crate there. They hardly talk at all, both apparently absorbed in their own tasks, but Aziraphale’s shoulders hold a tension that only dissipates when he glances over at Crowley, and Crowley’s breath quickens when the noises of Aziraphale’s movements are quiet for too long. They’re home, yes, and somehow, amazingly, they’re safe, but everything feels fragile. The peace is stretched too tight, and everything Crowley has ever known says that it has to snap sometime. He’s been living under impending doom for so long, and now that it seems to have just...passed him by, he doesn’t know what to do.

~

Aziraphale would like his wrist to stop acting as though there’s something wrong with it. He knows that there is nothing wrong with it. Nothing happened to his wrist. It has no excuse for throwing a fit every time he lifts a particularly heavy book. 

He picks up another book and adds it to the ever-growing stack of things to reshelve. It’s a comfortable rhythm, one that he can lose himself in, grounding him in the here and now. 

A book slips off the top of the stack and bounces off his shoulder. He catches it before it can fall to the floor, the movement automatic even as the impact sends an unpleasant shiver through him. He folds the book into one hand and leans against the bookshelf, trying to breathe. He’s in his shop. He can  _ see _ it, it’s right there, no one is trying to hurt him, he’s-

“Aziraphale?” Crowley. Crowley is behind him. That’s good. He can trust Crowley.

“I’m fine,” he says, closing his eyes. Only that’s worse, because now it’s dark, and if it’s dark he doesn’t know where he is, and-

“Hey,” Crowley says, the sound coming from in front of Aziraphale now. “Hey, Aziraphale, it’s okay.”

Aziraphale wrenches his eyes open again. Books. He can see books, and dusty natural light, and Crowley, standing in front of him, hand extended into the space in between them. 

“Okay,” he says, and his voice is a little higher-pitched than he expected. He sucks in a breath, realizing that it takes more effort than it should. 

Crowley moves forward slowly, as though giving Aziraphale time to move away, and takes the offending book from Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale stays where he is, hoping that if he  _ doesn’t _ move away, Crowley will come back. 

Crowley does, after setting the book on a shelf — all out of order, Aziraphale will have to move it later — taking Aziraphale’s hand and cupping it gently in both of his. Aziraphale exhales shakily and finally takes the few steps forward that are needed to bring him close enough for Crowley to hug him.

“It’s okay,” Crowley says again, hands now gently rubbing Aziraphale’s back. “You’re okay.”

“All right,” Aziraphale says, and doesn’t step away. 

Crowley doesn’t make him, either, just stays there until the panic fades, his touch gentle and warm and nothing like the impact of a falling book.

Or a fist.

Aziraphale moves, finally, letting go and looking back to the bookshelves. “You’ve put this one all out of place,” he gripes vaguely. 

“Just trying to annoy you, obviously,” Crowley says, and goes back to perch on the stepstool he appropriated.

Aziraphale makes a noncommittal noise, and hopes that it conveys the  _ thank you _ that won’t quite leave his lips.

~

When night falls again Aziraphale turns on the lights, illuminating the shop with a familiar warm glow. Crowley retreats to his usual spot on the sofa, snatching at the normality of it all. Aziraphale continues sorting at first, but soon joins Crowley, book in hand. 

There’s a moment when Crowley feels them both debating whether to continue pretending it’s like any other evening here. Then Aziraphale points to the spot where Crowley’s head and shoulders are resting and says, “The light is best right there, but I don’t want to make you move just for my reading light.”

Their eyes meet. Crowley considers teasing Aziraphale about diving right in with the bold requests, but decides against it. The fragility of the world, of every action, every word, is too stark. Instead he sits up and waves vaguely at the place Aziraphale indicated. When Aziraphale sits, Crowley flops back down, head now in Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale’s hand settles on Crowley’s shoulder, moving in gentle circles. Crowley thinks they both relax a little. 

It’s not a normal evening anymore. They’ve stolen moments like this before, occasionally over the years, but never enough for it to be anything approaching “normal”. Longed-for, certainly. Welcome, yes. But not unremarkable. 

Strangely, the very fact that it feels so not-normal is almost calming. Normal evenings have expectations around them, worries, scripts. They’ve never done this enough to have a script. There’s no way that it  _ has _ to go.

The fragile normality that surrounded them all day shatters, sprinkling into dust around them, replaced with a warm bubble that stretches and bends to this new thing.

Crowley wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what best to say. The desperation of the night before is gone, or at least hidden, now that the initial fear is under control, and he doesn’t want to push too hard. He looks up at Aziraphale, nose buried in his book, and thinks that maybe he’ll just stay quiet for now. Curl up inside this bubble where nothing is too big, and nothing hurts, and everything is quiet.

He closes his eyes. He won’t sleep, no, he still doesn’t want to know what he’ll see if he does that, but the warm glow of the bookshop lamps are comforting, and he’s okay with just seeing that for a while.

He doesn’t sleep, because he told himself he wouldn’t, but looking back he’s not sure what he  _ was _ doing for some of that time. The next thoughts he remembers are tense, the comforting glow of the bookshop is replaced in his mind by an unremarkable whiteness, and for a second, he can’t feel Aziraphale’s legs under him. 

Then everything snaps back into focus and he’s lying down on the sofa in the bookshop, his head in Aziraphale’s lap, staring out at piles of books and haphazard knicknacks that could be nowhere except Aziraphale’s shop.

His breath lets out in a gasp. He’s gripping Aziraphale’s knee, hard, the bone digging into his palm.

A soft hand runs along his upper arm. “Crowley?” Aziraphale sounds worried. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Crowley says. He shivers, then releases Aziraphale’s knee and sits up, resisting the urge to pull his own legs up on the seat and curl into a ball. 

Aziraphale’s arm drapes over his shoulders, keeping them close. In spite of himself, Crowley leans into the touch. 

“It doesn’t have to be nothing,” Aziraphale says.

“It is, though,” Crowley insists, not sure why it matters so much, but equally unwilling to back down on this. “I’m fine.”

“All right,” Aziraphale agrees.

He doesn’t let go.

Crowley doesn’t move away, either.

There’s a silence that might be five minutes, might be fifteen, even thirty.

“How do you stand it?” Crowley asks finally. 

He didn’t mean to ask that, really. He definitely didn’t mean to have that tremble in his voice. This isn’t something he wants to discuss. It definitely isn’t something he wants to make  _ Aziraphale _ discuss.

Before he can take it back, Aziraphale says, “I don’t know, really.”

Crowley twists to look at him. Aziraphale’s face is set, and calm. He doesn’t look at Crowley.

“It might be easier if you’re expecting it,” Aziraphale continues, thoughtfully. “I have wondered if experience helps or hinders.”

Crowley figured out that Aziraphale knew what happened. He was grateful, yesterday, to not have to explain it. But hearing Aziraphale’s voice now, so calm, so matter-of-fact, and knowing what images are floating in his mind is nearly more than Crowley can bear.

There is a moment of silence. Crowley considers breaking into it to take them off on a less fraught track, but Aziraphale’s silence speaks of words prepared but not yet said, and Crowley doesn’t want to cut him off.

“You don’t, I think,” Aziraphale says finally, in the tone of one who is carefully thinking through everything he says. “You aren’t supposed to ‘stand it’. That is the sort of thing that gets you put there in the first place. They have to quell it.”

“Resisting them, you mean,” Crowley says, something cold in his stomach. “The ‘sort of thing’ you’re talking about.”

“I suppose.” Aziraphale seems to shake himself a little, turns toward Crowley to hug him properly, gathering him close. Crowley curls up willingly, the touch still feeling a little more remarkable than he’d like. 

“I didn’t mean to ask that,” he offers, too late now, but it seems important anyway.

“It’s a good question,” Aziraphale says, resting his forehead on Crowley’s shoulder. “And one that I think you have plenty of right to ask, given recent events.”

“But not one you should have to answer right now,” Crowley argues. 

Aziraphale sighs. “I didn’t answer it, really. I don’t know how.”

“You did,” Crowley says. “And you don’t have to.”

In the silence, Crowley can practically hear Aziraphale fighting himself on that, at war between a desire to talk and a desire to pretend none of it ever happened. He turns so he can nestle a kiss in Aziraphale’s hair, slide an arm around his waist. 

“If I asked you about what happened in Hell,” Aziraphale says finally, “you would want to answer me.” 

It isn’t a question. Crowley nods anyway, knowing that Aziraphale can feel the movement even if he isn’t looking.

“Even if I told you you didn’t have to.”

“I get it,” Crowley says, before Aziraphale can continue.

Aziraphale raises his head at last. “I think you do.”

“I just- you deserve answers, if they’ll help you,” Crowley says, then realizes he’s probably just proved Aziraphale’s point. 

“And so do you.”

Crowley sighs and doesn’t say anything. 

~

Aziraphale is just considering whether to pick up his book again when Crowley says, “You don’t have to worry about me and Hell, you know.”

Aziraphale finds that he disagrees rather stringently with this statement.

“People Down There just want somebody to be mad at,” Crowley continues. “I’m pretty good at keeping it from being me. Screwing up Armageddon just wasn’t one I could get out of.”

Aziraphale really doesn’t know what to say to that. “Pretty good” isn’t exactly the ringing confidence he’d like to hear on the topic.

Crowley stretches with the kind of nonchalance that means he’s paying far too much attention to every reaction Aziraphale has. “Just thought you should hear that. That’s all. You can go read now.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says suddenly. “You remember how you keep telling me I ‘don’t deserve’ some of the things Heaven does?”

_ “Any _ of the things Heaven does,” Crowley mumbles.

“Yes, well. Has it never occurred to you that I might feel the same way about you and Down There?”

“Uh,” Crowley says.

“Well,” Aziraphale says again. “Hopefully it has occurred to you now.”

“I’m a  _ demon,” _ Crowley protests. “We’re supposed to be tormented and stuff, it’s the whole thing.  _ You, _ on the other hand.”

“I refuse to debate this,” Aziraphale says tartly. What he’d like to say is  _ you don’t deserve pain, never, ever, I will fight anyone who tries to hurt you again, my demon, mine. _

He doesn’t say any of that.

Crowley pushes away from Aziraphale and glares at him. “You don’t get to refuse to debate it. There isn’t anything to debate. My point stands. I...slide out of that kind of thing, when I can, but it’s a  _ fact.” _

“I don’t see you accepting some of Heaven’s idiosyncrasies as ‘fact’,” Aziraphale shoots back. “You’re always saying they’re wrong about things. But  _ Hell’s _ behavior is indisputable?”

They glare at each other for several very long moments. 

Then Crowley says, “I’m going for a walk,” and pushes himself off the sofa.

_ Don’t go far, _ Aziraphale wants to call after him, but he keeps the words in. He can’t keep Crowley here if he wants to go, shouldn’t want to.

The shop door closes.

Aziraphale stands up, not to follow, no, if Crowley needs space he should have it, but just to move. It’s foolish, but images of a conspicuously empty park bench are running through his mind, and with them comes an inability to sit still, as though he can find the being who should be occupying the bench just by pacing. 

The door opens.

Crowley comes back into view, still looking unhappy, but determined. He walks straight to where Aziraphale is standing and wraps his arms around the angel, setting his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“We should go for a walk,” he announces.

Aziraphale brings his own arms up automatically, hugging back. “Oh?”

“Yeah. The air is nice. Well. The air is very...Earth-y.”

_ Not too controlled, _ he’s saying.  _ Not too dank. Not like anywhere...else. _

“It’s nighttime,” Aziraphale points out.

“Not like we’ve never been out at night.”

“Let me just get my coat.”

~

The air is very Earth-y. The streets aren’t empty, not even close, but they are quieter than during the day. Aziraphale and Crowley walk along them, close enough that their hands brush as they swing. It’s good to be outside, to smell the smells and see the sights and remember what a big world there is here, right here on Earth, not off in the stars, or up in the heavens, or down in the pits. 

“This was a good suggestion, my dear,” Aziraphale says softly as they turn, eventually, back towards the shop.

“Evil suggestion,” Crowley snipes, but there’s no bite to it. “Wily.”

“Very,” Aziraphale agrees. His hand slips into Crowley’s.

Crowley squeezes it, turning his head so he can see the angel, walking along under the electric lights of London like any human who feels there are better things to do at night than sleep, and holding the hand of a demon as though there is nothing he’d rather be doing.

_ How, _ Crowley wonders,  _ did we get so lucky? _

He supposes some might think it a strange question, given the circumstances, the pain and fear and stress they went through barely days before. Besides, if Crowley thinks about it much, he wouldn’t say that they got  _ lucky, _ no, that’s not how life works. But right now, walking through the streets of London with his best friend, who somehow, amazingly, returns the feelings, alive and together and on an un-destroyed planet, he can’t think of a better way to describe it.

~

“You have a point,” Crowley murmurs, later, when they’re once again sitting in the dimmed bookshop, Crowley sitting squashed up in the corner of the sofa, Aziraphale nestled between his legs, back to Crowley’s chest.

“Of course I do,” Aziraphale says. “Which one, exactly?”

“Earlier. About Hell.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale waits, wanting to see where Crowley is going with this.

“That’s it.”

Aziraphale turns to slip an arm behind Crowley’s waist. “Ah.”

“Mhm.” Crowley rests his forehead on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“That’s all right, then.”

Crowley laughs a little, arm tightening around Aziraphale. “Anyway. What are you reading?”

Aziraphale knows it’s a deliberate subject change, designed to take him off on a tangent far away from potentially emotional topics. He takes the bait. Talking through things is good, but there’s something equally wonderful about sitting in his shop with Crowley, rambling about literature and seeing the patient, wryly affectionate expression on Crowley’s face as he listens.

And when the conversation winds down into silence, leaving only the muffled sounds of the city outside and the clock ticking, that’s good too. Crowley’s arm stays tucked behind Aziraphale’s back, Aziraphale’s hand on Crowley’s knee. Both small comforts, those touches. Both saying the same thing, silently, speaking with actions where their words would not yet go.

_ My demon. No one may hurt him. Safe. Here. Always. _

_ My angel. Here. Safe. Just try me. _

_ Our place. Our world. Our safety. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I definitely did not expect this to turn into an 11k multichapter fic when I started writing, but I like how it turned out. Drop me a comment if you have anything to say - I always love hearing from you.


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